“Foreman!” Shen Yimo’s shout rang out across the courtyard. The smoke began to clear, revealing a charred crater where the ramshackle shed had stood moments before. “Boss, are you… are you alright? The blueprints for the new gutter system were in there! And your lunch pail!” He scrambled forward, iron trowel rattling against his mortar bucket as he peered through the smoldering debris. Matriarch Pei Wanru peeked out from behind a cracked stone pillar. Her sect leader’s robes, usually crisp, now hung limp and stained. “He’s gone,” she groaned, clutching her abacus. “The only handyman who’d work for three coppers an hour! We’re ruined! Who will unclog the drainage conduits now? Or dredge the waste troughs!” Her grief was less about the individual and more about the imminent financial collapse. Gao Rufeng, still recovering from his ignominious tumble, watched the scene unfold with a peculiar blend of terror and morbid fascination. The shattered masonry seemed to confirm Gao Rufeng's suspicions: perhaps this 'plumber' was merely a decoy, and the High Court's grand volley had unsealed an ancient fiend. Then, a figure slowly emerged from the epicenter of the crater. Not blasted to dust, not even singed. Gong Zui stood there, perfectly upright, a fine layer of ash dusting his usual drab tunic. He rubbed his ear, a faint ring still echoing from the explosion. He looked utterly bored, if a little disheveled. Shen Yimo let out a gasp of relief, nearly dropping his trowel. “Boss! You’re in one piece!” Shen Yimo jogged toward the pit. “I was worried the structural integrity of your person had been compromised! Did you use the ‘Stabilizing Earth Anchor’ technique I taught you?” Gong Zui ignored him. His eyes, usually half-lidded with a permanent air of sleepy indifference, were now open, revealing depths that seemed to absorb the light around them. He bent down, sifting through the still-smoking embers. His calloused thumb brushed against a blackened fragment, then closed around it. When he stood upright, the flagstones vibrated under every soldier's iron greaves. Smug grins on the court magistrates froze into ashen grimaces. In Gong Zui’s hand was a single, tiny shard of glazed earthenware, still warm from the blast. It was the only remnant of his favorite, cheap, clay teapot, purchased for a mere three copper coins from a roadside vendor. The one he always had by his side during his tea breaks, perpetually filled with lukewarm jasmine. It had been his one indulgence, his small anchor to mundane peace. His lazy demeanor, a mask worn for centuries, evaporated like morning mist under a vengeful sun. The air curdled, pressing down on the mountain with a suffocating density that had nothing to do with circulating Qi. The thousands of elite court enforcers, who moments ago chanted for execution, hit the flagstones on trembling knees. Their circulating wards and polished barrier talismans sputtered out like wet matchsticks. Borin, the lead Grand Inquisitor whose cultivation could shear off a mountaintop, crashed to both knees. His staff clattered against the jade floor of his palanquin. Around him, his subordinates were already prostrate, their faces pressed against the silk cushions, trembling uncontrollably. Gao Rufeng, still on the ground, felt his bladder clench, a primal fear seizing him that eclipsed even the humiliation of the dung pile. The azure vault bleached to dull parchment, void of clouds or sun. Primeval geometric glyphs binding the natural order began to buckle and splinter in the air around Gong Zui. They writhed like distressed serpents, their glowing lines flickering erratically, as if the universe itself was struggling to maintain its form in the face of an impossible, all-consuming anger. Gong Zui looked at the shard in his hand, then up at the darkening sky, then back at the smoldering ruins of his shed. His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to resonate not just through the air, but through the very bone marrow of everyone present. “Do you know,” he said, his tone dangerously calm, “how hard it is to find a good teapot on a minimum wage salary?” He stepped out of the rubble, his eyes now glowing with a faint, chilling light that reflected the twisting, chaotic sky. With each step, the ground beneath his feet seemed to compress, the very stone groaning under a pressure that defied all known physics. The high magistrates watched the surrounding space warp inward, bent around the fury of the laborer they had deemed beneath notice. Shen Yimo, oblivious to the existential horror unfolding, tilted his head. “Master Gong, is that part of the ‘Structural Integrity Reinforcement’ technique? The sky is changing color, but the walls are still intact! You truly are a master of hidden arts!” He beamed, completely misunderstanding the crushing despair that had gripped the entire continent. Gong Zui merely glanced at him, a flicker of his usual exasperation returning, before his gaze hardened once more, settling on the trembling palanquins above. The courtyard hummed, not with ambient ether, but with the raw fury of an Apex Sovereign whose quiet retirement had been ruined alongside his three-copper kettle. The wind died flat, awaiting the falling hammer.

The Price of a Teapot